Shadows in the Kitchen
When Oliver found a slice of pear tart on the kitchen table for the third time—one he definitely hadn’t brought home—fear didn’t come. Neither did surprise. Just exhaustion, heavy and bone-deep. He was tired of sleepless nights, of commutes through the damp city where strangers no longer met each other’s eyes. Tired of hollow conversations, of hearing about holidays and gadgets, of forcing smiles. But most of all, he was tired of the loneliness. It lingered everywhere—on crowded train platforms, beneath blaring music, in the unanswered messages left hanging on his phone.
He’d lived alone nearly three years. After Imogen left, the flat still carried her scent—light, with hints of lavender. Now it smelled of nothing. Of emptiness, if such a thing had a smell. A clean, sterile silence. Not silence—more like a vacuum where everything was in its place, except his soul.
The first tart appeared on a Saturday morning. A neat slice on a plate, as if just baked. Oliver blamed fatigue—maybe he’d bought it and forgotten? The second time was on a Tuesday. The same tart, still warm, with a whisper of vanilla. He thought of his mate Liam, who had a spare key, but Liam was on holiday, posting pictures of the Lake District and joking about the rain.
By the third time, Oliver cut into it. Simple, vanilla-infused, lightly caramelised on top. The taste was nostalgic, like the ones his aunt used to bake—sweet, with generous chunks of pear. He didn’t eat it. Just stared. It was too fresh, as if left minutes ago. He wrapped a piece in foil, hid it like evidence. Checked the locks—all intact. Windows—latched. Only he, Liam, and his father had keys, and his father lived in the middle of nowhere, unlikely to pop by with a tart. Everything made sense. Except the tart.
That night, he dreamed of the kitchen. Not just a room—something alive, breathing. The light was soft, the air scented with pears and crispness, like after a summer shower. Someone was there—invisible but near. He woke at three, went for water—and froze. A fork lay in the sink. Wet. But he’d eaten sandwiches for dinner—no cutlery. His heart lurched, not from fear, but recognition. This wasn’t an accident.
In the days that followed, things shifted. Subtly. A mug moved across the table. The blanket on the sofa folded differently—carelessly, yet familiar. The hallway mirror tilted slightly. A shirt meant for the wash hung over a chair. Not eerie. Not like a horror film. More like someone being there. Gently. Almost tenderly. As if returning to where they once belonged.
Oliver started speaking into the quiet. At first, jokingly, testing the air. Then seriously. His voice settled into the stillness, natural as if in conversation. He joked. Asked for advice. Like he used to with Imogen, when she’d sit across from him, warming her hands on her teacup, listening without interruption. *”D’you think I drink too much tea now?”* or *”Remember when we fought over curtains and didn’t speak for days?”* Sometimes, he swore he felt a reply. Not words—just warmth. A pause where the air thickened, as if the walls weren’t just listening but remembering.
One day, he couldn’t resist. Bought two teas from the café—one for himself, the other just because. Placed the second cup opposite his. Not out of belief, but need. To admit: *Someone’s here. Even if just a little. Even if just a shadow.*
It lasted ten days. Then Imogen came back.
She opened the door with her key, dropped her bag by the threshold, and said:
*”I’d forgotten what your flat smells like.”*
She stood slightly hunched, as if braced to be turned away. Oliver stared—she was achingly familiar yet unreal, like a vision from another life. Words clogged his throat. All the questions that had gathered for months. She didn’t cry. Neither did he. They sat at the table. Between them, silence heavy with what couldn’t be said.
She looked up and asked:
*”Did you feel me here?”*
He nodded. Slowly, barely, afraid any movement might make her vanish.
*”I had to come back. Even like this. Through the smell. The little things. I didn’t miss you—I missed who we were.”*
*”You were here. Shadows.”*
*”Shadows,”* she echoed. *”But now… I’ll go. Properly. Without a trace. Without hurt.”*
He watched her, fragile and slipping away, already not his.
*”Another cuppa?”* he asked.
She smiled—soft, bittersweet.
*”One more. While I’m still a shadow.”*
They drank tea in the kitchen. One evening. One scent. One goodbye that didn’t wound, just left warmth, like an old letter tucked in a drawer.
She left. Oliver stayed alone. But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore. It held breath—faint but alive. Memory. A cup.
A fork—not a sign of loneliness, but proof someone had been there. That something had happened. And lingered.
And the tart he baked himself. A little uneven, slightly burnt at the edges, but his. Not the same as before, but that was the truth of it.
Sometimes, to let go, you have to let in. Not the person—but yourself beside them. Even as a shadow. Even almost. Because *almost* still means something.
